


Synchronous Rotation

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no doubt that there are three of them in this fucked-up, co-dependent, parasitic relationship; Vincent, Eugene, and Jerome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronous Rotation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khasael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/gifts).



If at first you don't succeed, try, try again, is only a philosophy Eugene has recently come to live by. When he was younger, when he was still Jerome, he never would have imagined not succeeding the first time around.

"How many times are we going to do this, Eugene?" Vincent sounds tired and put upon, very much Vincent in the moment, trying to move Eugene from his chair into his bed - dead legs, and drunk, dead weight fighting against him and gravity. And that's still the main difference between Vincent and Jerome, how they can be told apart: Jerome would have left him there.

There's no doubt that there are three of them in this fucked-up, co-dependent, parasitic relationship; Vincent, Eugene, and Jerome - every flaw magnified in the two of them and Jerome the best of them both.

Sometimes Eugene can feel it like a physical presence in the house, all of the damage carried between them, imperfect, broken creatures that they are. It grows up, and takes over, until it's no wonder that they both try to escape it. Eugene stepping into traffic and Vincent going off into space.

"How many days until take-off?" Eugene asks, although he remembers, of course he remembers, it's the only thing he's worked for in months, possibly the only worthwhile thing he will ever do now.

Vincent has his arms wrapped around Eugene's waist, trying to maneuver him up enough to propel him forward and out. His arms barely even tremble with the strain. If they were both Jerome, they would be exactly of a height, exactly of a weight. Eugene is smaller now, lighter. In body, at least.

"Fifteen," Vincent grunts in his ear, and finally gets his hands under Eugene's hips, shifting him. There's a part of Eugene that wonders whether it's Jerome that smelt like this, sweaty and male, or whether this is Vincent, still trying to keep separate the two of them in his mind even though he knows they've now meshed in ways he can't begin to understand.

He wonders why Vincent hasn't begun to resent Jerome yet, what he represents, everything Vincent isn't and will never be, everything Eugene was before he wasn't.

"Only fifteen more times then," Eugene answers as Vincent half-carries, half-drags him onto the bed, falling over with Eugene into a tangle on the mattress.

Vincent laughs, and manages to shove Eugene over, as drunk and boneless as he is. He straightens Eugene's legs for him, his hands on his knees, leaning down over him. Eugene had told him that he no longer recognized him and that's true, there are days when he doesn't even think of him as Vincent, just Jerome this and Jerome that. Never mind the days when he finds it hard to remember that Jerome had once been his name, the person that he was.

But they're in Jerome's bed. Somehow that makes it easy to lean up, press his mouth against Vincent's, feel his lips open and wet against his own. Kissing deep and messy. Jerome never slept alone.

"We shouldn't do this." Vincent whispers, though he doesn't yet pull back or away. Eugene can't see his eyes, can't tell why he would want to stop. Jerome wouldn't. But Vincent is in love, or perhaps just thinks that he might be. He wonders if Irene has touched him yet, seen Vincent's scars, the proof that he isn't who he pretends to be. If he isn't going to be Jerome, then Eugene will be for him.

"Do you like being me?" He asks, holding Vincent down against him, and maybe it's cruel, because it's so obvious in this moment that Vincent does. Likes what being Jerome gets him, what it affords him. All the things Vincent could never dare to want, Jerome could have. Vincent flinches a little, but then his back stiffens, and he doesn't protest again as Eugene's hands wander down. He lets him flick open the fastenings on his trousers, spread the fabric aside to get to skin. He likes it.

With the escorts, Eugene never has to worry about embarrassment or shame. They handle his body with professional, almost clinical care. It makes no difference to them what his legs look like, how long it takes him to achieve erection, to come.

But it's easy in its own way, to do this. Masturbatory. When he closes his eyes, they're both Jerome, and every touch on Vincent's body is a touch on his own.

"Shall I call you Jerome or Vincent when I get you off?" Because he's wrapping a hand around Vincent, and Vincent bucks into his touch. He can't feel it, the coupling of bodies, not exactly how he used to, the sensations dull and blunt below his waist. But he feels his heart racing, that his skin is flushed, his prick is hard.

"Should I call you Jerome or Eugene?" Vincent asks in return. He tugs at Eugene's trousers, gets them open, exposes his cock.

Vincent rubs up against him, hard and frantic, the wet slide of their cocks together a distant pleasure for Eugene. When he comes, the splash of semen across his belly is almost a surprise, and he yelps a little, clutching frantically at the bedsheets as it washes over him. Vincent seems to have been pacing him, he immediately groans, pressing his face to the side of Eugene's neck and comes too, adding to the mess on Eugene's stomach before collapsing against him. They laze like that for a time, catching their breath, until eventually Vincent rolls off of him, grabbing tissues from the bedside table to clean themselves with.

He helps Eugene undress after, his head turned away tactfully as Eugene struggles to slide his legs under the covers. So polite, his Vincent. He would mock him for it, but he's drunk enough to be grateful, and generous now that he's well-fucked too.

"Tell me more about Titan." It sounds pathetically like _stay and talk to me_ , but Eugene manages a little of his old charm with it, enough that it doesn't feel like pity when Vincent smiles, just a tiny little up curve at the side of his mouth, and undresses, lies down beside Eugene under the covers. And stays.

"Its rotational period is the same as its orbital period. As it orbits around Saturn, only one side of it ever faces the planet. The same as our moon." He does a slow circle in the air with his finger. He's drowsing against Eugene's shoulder, he'll be asleep in no time, they both will.

And when Eugene wakes up, morning light weakly filtering through the blinds, he won't be alone.

"How many times are we going to do this?" Vincent lies in silhouette across the bed, still naked and half-asleep. He never met a problem that he wouldn't address head-on, never imagined that there might be an obstacle he can't overcome. It reminds Eugene of Jerome. And that Eugene still has his own determination.

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," Eugene says. Because he is Eugene now, again, always. That's the only face he sees. Although it's not a problem he can imagine having for long.

They might be locked into their orbits for now, in their lives as Jerome, but they can still both escape. If they try.


End file.
